The Bad Shepherd Read online

  The gun was the centerpiece in his theory.

  For this to work, Jimmy would need to issue a subpoena to Central Evidence for the weapon. Fochs didn’t envision any issues there unless Mitch somehow managed to disappear it from Central Evidence, but that seemed unlikely. It would almost be better if he had done something with the gun, Bo mused. That would play hell with a jury and backstop the “police conspiracy” angle, should they decide to use it.

  Fochs had called Jimmy Mack late the night before and updated him on the plan that he and Kaitlin had come up with. The lawyer wasn’t happy about the subpoena idea, although and thought it was playing his hand, but Fochs was able to sway him. Mack was wary about the reporter, but Bo knew the cagey attorney was sniffing headlines. Fochs also had the lawyer set up a meeting with Fremont’s younger brother, Sterling. Unfortunately, that was going to be for later today, meaning Fochs would have to duck out on his surveillance of Kit Carson’s niece again. Most of the time Fochs was able to run things down after hours so, really, all he was doing was disobeying McLaren’s no moonlighting directive. That, too, Fochs knew was wrong.

  But he also believed it was the only choice he could make.

  The man pulling Lorenzo Fremont’s strings, the man who supplied the drugs that got Daphne killed, the man who pushed so much strife into the community was out there and Bo had a legitimate shot to find him. Fochs also believed that he was truly the only person positioned to find this man and expose him. Fochs knew that was worth the risk. That didn’t make sleeping with that decision any easier, however.

  He called in a favor with one of the firm’s other detectives, Mike Hartley, who agreed to take his shift today. Fochs told him something came up and he had to take care of it today.

  Fochs grabbed a manila folder, left his office, and walked over to McLaren’s. His boss looked up when he arrived, held up a finger to finish his phone call, and waved Fochs in. The younger detective sat while his boss wrapped up his discussion.

  “Good morning, Bo. How goes it?”

  “Good, Boss.”

  “What can I do for you?”

  “I’m going to be out most of the day, so I wanted to give you an update before I headed out.”

  “Where are you off to?”

  “Muscle Beach. Word is the meathead hangs out down there most of the day.” Fochs flexed his arm, vamping a bodybuilder. McLaren laughed. “If he’s there, I’m going to observe. If not, I’ve got names and DMV photos of his KAs.” Fochs held up the folder. “I’m going to start asking questions, putting the word out.”

  “Let him know people are looking into him?”

  “Exactly. Who knows? Maybe that’ll even scare him off.”

  “Doubt it, but it’s worth a shot. I would like you to swing by there tonight. I know it’s an inconvenience, but you can charge it to OT.” McLaren thought for a moment. “OK. What’s going on with Early Warning?”

  “Pretty much the same as the last time we talked. They’re spending all of their time practicing for the Van Halen tour. According to their manager, they aren’t getting into any trouble.” Fochs added with a smirk, “At least, nothing out of the ordinary for some twenty-something rock stars.”

  “I bet.” McLaren stood, letting Fochs know the meeting was over.

  “You get the tapes I left you?”

  “I got three cassettes, but they were just unintelligible noise. Maybe your recorder is busted,” McLaren said dryly.

  “One of those is going to be our client, boss. You really should give them a listen. It’s good stuff. You want to move into this space; you’ve got to know who’s who.”

  McLaren harrumphed as they walked toward the door of his office. “That’s what I’ve got you for. You make this work, I’ll put you in charge of our ‘entertainment security’ practice, or whatever the hell we’re calling it.”

  “Serious?”

  “Of course I am. It was your idea, and you worked the lead. Plus, as you say, it’s all noise to me.”

  Fochs beamed. “You gotta move beyond Frank Sinatra at some point.”

  “He’s still touring, Bo.” McLaren patted him on the back. “He’s also a legend, so be respectful. Seriously, I’m proud of you. You’re doing great work.”

  Fochs smiled but said nothing. A short and intense burst of guilt stabbed at his stomach, enough to actually make him feel queasy. He hated running a game on his boss. McLaren had taken a chance on him when almost no one would have. He’d given Fochs the opportunity to be a detective again, and Bo had done well by him. It would have been quite a bit longer for him to scratch together enough money to buy the house if he were living in on a Detective I salary, and the house sure as hell wouldn’t have been in Hollywood. Fochs pushed those thoughts out of his head. He needed to focus.

  “Speaking of work . . .”

  “I’m gone, Boss.”

  Fochs went to the garage, got his Mustang, and headed for South Central to sit down with Fremont’s younger brother.

  Jimmy Mack set the meeting at Brewer Park on the USC campus. Fochs wanted to meet Sterling somewhere outside of his hood but not in another gang’s territory and not so far out that it was a place he’d never go. Many gang members rarely travelled outside their neighborhoods. In fact, it was common for residents of South LA to live their entire lives without having seen the Pacific Ocean a mere ten miles away.

  Fochs orbited the statue on Exposition Boulevard and waited in the heat. Fremont arrived just under twenty minutes late. Bo spotted him immediately because he didn’t look like he went to school. At least Fremont down-dressed his Crip look with a plain white t-shirt and blue jeans. The bandanna was probably tucked into a pocket. Jimmy Mack must have talked to him. Fochs inclined his head once when he saw Fremont, catching the kid’s eye. Fochs stood his ground and waited for Fremont to walk up to him, studying him as he approached. He was darker than his brother and taller, slimmer though not skinny, wiry.

  Fremont walked up to the detective and looked him over, head to toe. “Yo, you Fochs?”

  “That’s right,” Bo said. He didn’t extend a hand. There were some hands you just didn’t shake. “Let’s walk.” Fochs knew from discussions he’d had with Jimmy Mack that Sterling was very deep in the life, basically picking up where his big brother had left off. There were about four years between the Fremont brothers, which put him at twenty-three. Fochs knew his street name was “Stir” and that it had been earned.

  Fochs headed into the park; Fremont followed. “I spoke with Jimmy Mack this morning, and we agreed it would be a good idea for you and me to speak. Did he tell you who I am? That I knew your brother?”

  “Yeah, he say that,” he said, looking at Fochs.

  Smug little fucker, Fochs thought.

  “He also said it was your partner who killed Renzo.”

  “I’m trying to show that your brother was not armed when he was shot by Los Angeles Police Detective Mitchell Gaffney.”

  “You ain’t answered my question. He your partner?”

  Fochs looked up the shaded sidewalk and waited for a pair of coeds to pass out of earshot. “Yes, Detective Gaffney was my partner. I believed at the time that he planted the gun they said was your brother’s. I argued that Detective Gaffney panicked and shot your brother, and I pushed for an investigation into that.” Fochs exhaled into the hot summer air. “I believed then, and still do, that the LAPD covered it up. I agreed to take the case because I want to prove your brother wasn’t armed when he was shot.”

  “What’s it to you? You were trying to arrest him, weren’t you?”

  “I was trying to arrest him because he was selling coke. That doesn’t mean he deserved to get shot,” Fochs said flatly. He considered the young gangster next to him for a long second, before saying with calculated contempt, “Besides, I wasn’t interested in your brother. I wanted the guy calling the shots. It’s a lot harder to find that out once he was dead. Jimmy Mack hired me to find out so we can work it into the trial.”

>   Fremont shrugged but said nothing.

  “So why don’t you tell me about it?”

  “I wasn’t there that night. I didn’t usually hang out at Renzo’s crib on account of I wasn’t a part of his crew. He wanted me to make my own name first.”

  “Did you know him to keep guns around?”

  “You don’t last long around here you ain’t strapped.”

  “What about in the house?”

  “I already told you. I wasn’t there.”

  “Do you know where he got his shit?”

  “Around the way.”

  “Seriously, Sterling. This is important. Where did your brother get the coke? I was there. I saw how much he had. He didn’t have a goddamn cocoa field in his back yard. Someone gave it to him to sell. Who was it?”

  Fremont looked around the park though he tried to make it look like he was just staring off into the distance. Fochs studied him guessing at his eye movements behind the Locs. Fremont was looking for something or someone. Eventually, he mumbled that he didn’t know but didn’t elaborate. Then he looked away; that was his tell. Why did he care who saw him talking or what he was talking about?

  “Yo, they knew he was dealing outside the gang and wasn’t kicking nothing up. He was gonna get cut, and everybody knew it but Renzo and his fool ass crew. That’s why his shit was drying up when he got killed. Supplier was cutting his losses.”

  “Wait, what did you just say?”

  “What?” Sterling asked with a blank expression on his face as if unsure of why that was a question.

  “You said the gang found out Lorenzo was dealing behind their back, and they were going to take him out because of it.”

  Sterling didn’t respond, just gaped back as if.

  “How do you know all this?” Fochs demanded.

  “Renzo wouldn’t let me run with his crew, said I ain’t earned my way yet, so I got my own homeboys. When it was time, people ask where he could be found.”

  “You sold out your own brother?”

  Sterling’s face lit up in a flash fire of righteous indignation. “I ain’t said that. I said they asked. I ain’t said I told.”

  Bo didn’t immediately respond. He was still processing what Fremont had said about his brother’s supply drying up in reaction to Lorenzo’s apparent flaunting of his new fortunes and his lack of respect. The Rockstars had thought it was because they were disrupting his operations by rolling up his networks.

  Fochs redirected and tried another line of questioning, but Fremont again rebuffed him with evasive, ambivalent answers. Fochs worked to hide his frustration, but after thirty minutes of discussion where he’d essentially asked the same questions any number of ways, Fremont just kept up the same disinterested air. Finally, Fochs pressed him. “Look, I’m trying to prove that a cop murdered your brother. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

  “White people always want to prove shit. Ain’t no proof down here. We all know he killed Renzo, and we all know why. Your partner was a punk ass scared little bitch. There’s your proof.”

  For a moment, Fochs thought about a lecture on the rules of evidence and due process, but he knew that would just get lost on his subject.

  “People are all over the hood since those Bloods got done.” Fremont spat out the side of his mouth, adding a small measure of disrespect to the Courtyard victims. “Police, reporters, er’ebody. They all want to know why it happened; who could do such a thing,” he said in a mocking tone, imitating a White man’s voice. “People don’t understand.” Fremont looked beyond the trees to Exposition Boulevard. Whatever was behind that for him, Fochs couldn’t tell. “Sometimes niggas just got to go, and sometimes other people just happen to be next to them when it happens. You live in a Blood neighborhood, you ain’t innocent. You just might not be guilty yet. Or maybe you just need to be made an example of.” A knowing smirk replaced the angry words. Fochs had seen that look before.

  “You sound like you know something about it.”

  “Yo, we done here?”

  “You still didn’t answer my question.”

  “Man, I answered your damn questions all day out in this shit.” He spread his arms as if he expected heat waves to simply radiate off his body like a sullen Jesus.

  “You didn’t tell me who Fremont’s supplier was.” Bo eyed Fremont and threw him a low slider. “Who is this guy that your brother’s own set was going to kill him for, just so they can get next to the guy?”

  “It wasn’t like that,” he said, shaking his head slowly, sadly.

  “Then tell me, what was it like?”

  Fremont flashed teeth. “The fuck you need to know for? The fuck it have to do with this stupid ass lawsuit?” He turned to leave.

  “Let me ask you this,” Fochs said to Fremont’s back. “Jimmy Mack thinks he’s got a strong case to file a wrongful death suit against the police department. This could be worth millions of dollars for your family. Maybe you’d like to think about it and get back to me?”

  Fremont shrugged and spat on the ground. Finally, he turned his head halfway around, throwing the words over his shoulder. “Family, shit. It’s Renzo's dad called Jimmy Mack. I ain’t nothing to him, and I ain’t gonna see shit that money. The fuck I care?”

  Fremont walked away.

  Bo called after him but Fremont didn’t even bat an arm in reply.

  Fochs climbed into the Mustang, revved the engine, and dialed KROQ, catching the last half of the ever-present “Jump” before it faded into AC/DC’s “Shoot to Thrill.” Fochs dropped his boot on the Mustang’s gas pedal, sprinting down Exposition toward the 110 and from there to Hollywood and home. Meeting with Fremont and his fuck-the-world attitude had been a waste of a morning. Fochs hated lying to his boss, hated two-timing him, especially after he’d specifically told McLaren that he wouldn’t take the case. McLaren didn’t understand, though. To him it was just baggage Bo would be better off leaving behind. He was right; Fochs knew. But he also knew this wasn’t something he could just let go. Lorenzo Fremont was the catalyst, the axle around which Foch’s entire life had unwound.

  Lorenzo Fremont and Mitchell Gaffney were never far from his thoughts. One was a petty criminal and gangbanger whom the LAPD had anointed a drug lord, and the other was a lying coward. But it wasn’t that simple. Going to the press and leaking the theory that Mitchell panicked and then planted a drop gun—something wasn’t common practice in nearly forty years in the department—had been an impulsive, vengeful decision fueled by Bo being in a very, very dark place. He regretted it as soon as he’d sobered up but by the time the damage was done, the department ushered him out and Fochs never had the chance to correct his mistake. Then, Bo spent the next three years trying to convince himself that he’d been right or at least, that he’d had no other choice.

  Gaffney had been the closest friend Bo ever had.

  He still was if you measured relationships in pain.

  “OK, Sterling Fremont,” Fochs said, refocusing his thoughts for the second time. “Sterling Fremont. Sterling Fremont,” he said slowly, like a hymn. “What are you trying to tell me? What do you know?” Bo replayed the conversation in his head and tried to focus on what he remembered of Fremont’s body language, his demeanor, and any of the nonverbal clues that would indicate a tell. Fochs snapped his fingers.

  “You little son of a bitch. You know who it is. But you won’t tell me. Why?” Fochs downshifted to third, spiking the RPMs, and cranked the Shelby into the right lane, earning him a finger and honks from at least one fellow motorist. He needed to find a phone. “You’re either afraid of him or you’re working for him now.” Then, Bo added, “or both.”

  “Ms. Everett, you have a call,” the intern told her with just her head and shoulders through the door. She was in one of the station’s production studios finishing up the voiceover for tonight’s report. “Line six.”

  “Thank you, Luis.” She stepped away from of the console where she’d been working on her latest background pi
ece in the Courtyard Massacre series and walked over to the wall phone. Kaitlin was thankful beyond words to be on hard news again, but she wished it were any story but this. She’d lobbied to join the Olympics coverage team. She was an athlete herself, having attended the University of Florida on a tennis scholarship. Her news director said she was an investigative journalist and needed to play to her strengths. She hated being told what stories to chase, but she knew she was lucky to have her job. The director said that what they needed was a hard-nosed investigator to dig in and help with the massacre.

  The event had seemed to touch everyone in the city. If it had only been ten gangsters, no one would’ve blinked an eye, but eight of them were kids. It was ungodly. The police department was desperate to close it before the Olympics. The station had some highly placed sources, as far up as Chief Gates’ inner circle, who were saying the old man was afraid that if they couldn’t close this and soon, that would be just the lever the FBI needed to wrestle control of security from him. That would be a major blow to the city and, more to the point, the police chief. Gates, of all people, knew that the only people who could fail on the world stage and keep their jobs were presidents and Olympians.

  There was something of an undercurrent of Angelino pride in this for them as well. For all the storied tension between the city and her police force, the last thing any citizen wanted was for the feds to step in and start pushing people around.

  She pressed the blinking button, farthest over on the right. Phones were muted in the studios. “This is Kaitlin Everett.”